


Still Veins

by You_Light_The_Sky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood, Dark, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform, creepiness, dark!Sherlock, light gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/pseuds/You_Light_The_Sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's hands are always cold. Inspired by this <a href="http://taikova.tumblr.com/post/44856358389/none-of-the-cabs-would-take-me"> fanart </a> on tumblr by <a href="http://taikova.tumblr.com/"> taikova. </a> </p><p>Chinese Translation Available.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Veins

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this. I have no clue what the flip I just wrote.
> 
> warnings; ooc characters, gore, blood
> 
> CHINESE TRANSLATION [ here](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=3885) by Alice

Now and Before: John

-

Sherlock's hands are always cold.

John notices this when their hands first brush, when he offers the man his phone (like pressing his fingers against the surface of hard snow in the tundra, the numb sensations still lingering there as Sherlock lists his life story in a few rushed points, rushing away with his mind intent on retrieving his riding crop.) He thinks it must be a result of poor circulation (Sherlock hardly eats regular meals and he's so pale all the time that John has to buy him multi-vitamin tablets in the hopes that Sherlock might voluntarily take them if only to soothe John's nerves.)

It doesn't bother him at first (except for the issue of Sherlock's health) and John doesn't think he would take such note of it if Sherlock's fingers didn't constantly brush against John's in between crime scenes or when they chase another criminals. They're always orbiting around each other in the flat, one way or another. Sherlock always seems to find an excuse to invade John's personal space (from putting his hands on John's face during the case of "The Blind Banker"-- _think, John, think,_ he'd said, _with those intense eyes_ \--or getting John to pass him different pens or petri dishes.

But it's just... so shocking to feel it, as if Sherlock's touch becomes colder and colder (like subzero levels, John thinks wildly once, when it feels like his fingers are frozen in-between Sherlock's as he pulls John up over a fence.)

"No wonder you wear gloves so often," John says another time, "I don't understand why your hands are always so freezing."

"If it bothers you so much, then you should let go," he snaps.

"It doesn't bother me, I don't mind it. I'm still holding on, aren't I? I'm just worried for your health! Have you eaten anything yet today?"

Sherlock always stares at him with a blank expression, assessing him (everything, everyone, always) and ignoring him all at once.

But this time, he just stares at their hands and he tightens his grip, digging his nails into the little grooves between John's fingers, prickles of cold sinking down to John's bones.

"It doesn't bother you," Sherlock repeats slowly, those eyes focusing on him and reminding John of _that's-brilliant_ and _do-you-think-so_ and something deeper, colder, much, much colder because--

"No," says John, "I don't mind."

When Sherlock smiles, John feels a strange chill.

He spends the rest of the day being dragged by Sherlock to every post office in London to find a letter-opener-murder. It isn't until they return to 221B and John excuses himself to go make tea that he realizes that Sherlock hasn't let go of his hand once and that there are deep marks where Sherlock's nails have dug into him and he didn't even notice.

He lifts his own hands up to his face and is shocked to feel the icy touch there.

The numbness lingers under John's skin for hours after.

-

Sherlock stares at him in that assessing way again in the morning.

John only shrugs, offers him toast and puts his hand over Sherlock's again.

Cold again. Numb again.

John's fingers don't move.

-

Sherlock finds every excuse to grab his hand after that, whether it be to scare off a potential girlfriend or to smile smugly at Scotland Yard. John stops trying to tell people that they’re not a couple, not when he knows what Sherlock’s gazes do to him.

It’s fine.

-

He stops reacting to finding heads in the fridge and eyeballs in the microwave. John even starts scrutinizing them, trying to guess what experiments, what questions, Sherlock might be attempting to uncover with these things. One would think, with the stacks of loose-leaf binders and notes that Sherlock Holmes had catalogued practically everything about the human body and all it is (but then again, even Sherlock can't know everything? John wonders how Sherlock would scientifically explain love and fear and hatred. He wonders if this is programmed into every being or just something human beings are cursed with. He wonders, sometimes, after finding Sherlock staring at him as he would stare hungrily at a corpse, if it even matters.)

Maybe he doesn't notice the first few times because he was so repulsed by the idea of body parts in their kitchen. But John sees it now, in all of them, the way the skin looks and the dullness and wrinkles of all of it.

There's no blood left in these limbs. They're completely sucked dry and not the way in which some cadavers are filled up with liquid to keep them somewhat fresh for dissection.

No, they are dry, wrinkled to the bone, no blood in sight.

-

John starts checking the trash, starts asking Molly if Sherlock ever gives her the body parts back to dispose of or busy.

The trash is empty of body parts. Molly says no.

-

It isn't until he falls asleep while Sherlock demands his presence in the sitting room so that he can properly think (apparently the only thing John is necessary for is breathing in the same space as the great Sherlock Holmes-- _shut up, John, I need you so that I can think. I just need you there, now go be silent with my skull--)_ and wakes up to find Sherlock sitting in his armchair, the same position as before, studying John quietly, that he thinks to ask it.

"Do you ever sleep?"

(That's not the essential question, no, it's not. John asks this all the time, worried that Sherlock might fall over one day because he forgot that it's necessary to eat to function.)

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Don't be silly. I don't sleep, John, you know that."

 _No I don't,_ John nearly says.

But he stops, because there are moments he dismissed in the first several months that he's lived here. How Sherlock's bed sheets are always folded up neatly, his bedroom looking barely touched when the sitting room and kitchen (where Sherlock normally resides) are always in a state of chaotic clutter. How Sherlock curls up on the couch but never seems to be truly asleep. How Sherlock is always, always up before John, despite John's habit of waking at military hours and Sherlock's night of violin playing.

John looks at Sherlock's face.

No bags under the eyes. Just a startling pale shade. That unhealthy pale pallour.

His fingers touch Sherlock's cheek and he very nearly retracts it back, shocked at his movements. Sherlock is staring as always, an intensity that John doesn't want to name there...

"...You should eat something," the words spill out, as John continues looking at pale, "anything. I'll order some Chinese."

Sherlock's hands snap over John's wrist, making John still.

"No," he says. "Stay. I have more to think on, and I need you here."

"Sherlock--"

He tries not to shiver at the cold returning to his wrists, the familiar numb settling into his bones from just one touch--

"Stay, John."

He does.

-

"I told you that my brother was dangerous, Doctor Watson."

"Mycroft," John glares at him, his groceries heavy in his grip. "I honestly don't know why you insist on playing at this."

A chuckle, not quite amused and not very frightening, echoes in the empty warehouse.

"Please don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about. You're a reasonably intelligent man. You've seen things in your time as a soldier, things you can't explain and you're seeing them again with my brother. You know what he is."

" _No,_ " John snaps, a little too quickly, he knows, "I don't. Sherlock is just a normal human being--"

Mycroft actually snorts, "If you think my brother has ever been _normal_ \--" he says the word as if it contains all of the filth and disease in the world, "--then you're wrong--"

"There's no such thing as 'normal'," John finds himself snapping, "and even if there was, there is still nothing dangerous about Sherlock at all except for the crimes that he surrounds himself with. Nothing more. Now if you'll excuse me."

He turns to leave, as is the usual ending to their scenes. It's a predictable exit, until it's not.

"I would get out as soon as I can, Doctor. England needs more men like you. Sherlock Holmes will destroy you," Mycroft warns.

"Then why do you let him go?" John asks.

Mycroft doesn't reply. In the end, they both know the root of their reasonings, don't they?

John keeps walking.

-

"Sentiment," he whispers.

"It will get you killed, Watson."

"I don't care."

No wonder he got shot.

No wonder he couldn't run away when Sherlock said, 'dangerous.'

-

"Do you think that you can live on little scraps forever?" Moriarty laughs when they're at the pool, when John is strapped to semtex and bombs, practically wrapped up in Death's tight arms.

Sherlock stands opposite them, pointing the gun.

"If I ate like you, then I might start looking like my brother Mycroft and that wouldn't do," Sherlock retorts, the dangerous promise lingering in his gaze despite the easygoing banter.

"Oh I work out, darling. Lots of strings to be pulled when so many wishes to grant to the poor little people who need something done," Moriarty says, his finger tracing a line across John's throat, the cold touch (just as cold as Sherlock's) making John gasp, "You'd look just as fabulous as me if you followed my diet."

Frost seems to paint itself on John's cheek as Moriarty breathes against him.

"We could share this one, you and me... like old times," John feels Moriarty smile next to his skin.

"John is mine!" Sherlock snaps.

"Ooo!" Moriarty steps back, "Do you have a heart again after all, darling?"

"I've been informed that I don't have one. You should know," Sherlock shakes the gun at him.

"Oh, I think you and I know that isn't quite true... but I can fix that, can't I?" Sherlock's eyes widen at Moriarty's words, "It was fun until you got in my way, darling. Bye, bye~!"

John stiffens, realizing what is happening. He thinks of blood, of ice, of Mycroft's warnings and what Sherlock must eat and then he thinks of a world without him.

"No."

His handcuffed hands go around Moriarty's neck. He screams, "Run, Sherlock, run!" because he's not sure if a bomb will kill Sherlock or not, but he believes and he hopes it won't. It can't. Sherlock will live at least--

There's a button. There's movement and shoving and then fire, fire, so hot and burning and screaming-- _Watson, Watson, they shout as pain explodes in his shoulder and he falls against sand, begging for God to let him live to stop the fire--_

-

Arms wrap around him.

It's cold, so cold.

-

When John wakes, his whole body aches. He can barely get up and he's aware of a thick black coat draped over him, almost like Sherlock's... wait, Sherlock--

He coughs out his name and then there's movement shifting behind him. A chilling touch cradling his face upwards and then shaking his shoulders, "--are you alright? John, speak to me, _are you alright_?"

"Urgh," John groans, dizziness blurring his vision. He can make out Sherlock's wild expressions, "... yes... yes... m'fine..."

"No! No, you're not," Sherlock snaps, "you had to be stupid. Don't you dare close your eyes again, John Watson. Keep your eyes open. I've called Lestrade and my brother. You'll survive, you've probably only a possible concussion. Thankfully I blocked the effects of the explosion from you--"

John blinks warily, his vision clearly in tiny increments. There's a big gaping red on Sherlock's chest, seeping through his shirt. Red... red... red...

"Oh my god," John shoots up, touches Sherlock's drenched shirt, "is that... is that blood?"

Something flashes across Sherlock's face, "John--"

"Let me see it," John pulls the buttons away, spreads the shirt back--

"No, John, don't--"

"Sherlock, just let me--"

 _...take care of you._ The words vanish from him.

He stops, his hand almost vanishing through the gaping hole, the chunk of missing flesh in his friend's chest. Where the heart should be. Just a grinded grove, where veins and arteries, all red and torn, stick out and drip. The red pours down continuously, slick waterfalls of blood, over top of several lines of linen bandages that look weeks old.

"Oh my god, you're hurt," John says first, the only thing he can think of when he sees all that red.

Sherlock looks surprised.

"John--"

"Here, let me use your coat to stop the bleeding--"

"John--"

"Look, I know it's a posh coat, but this is more important--"

"John, listen! You know what this is, John. You know what I am."

No, he doesn't. Not really. He's seen bloodsuckers and men who wouldn't die in the war but he's never seen this.

"No heart," John says hoarsely.

Sherlock slowly nods, "No heart... but still a pulse."

John closes his eyes, "Then we need to get away from here before people see you."

-

None of the cabs will take them, all bloody even with Sherlock covered up shirt (the red bleeds through.)

They stumble into 221B, or at least John does.

Sherlock collapses.

-

"Sherlock! Sherlock, damn it, wake up!"

They're at the foot of the stairs to their flat. Mrs. Hudson is out. It's amazing how much John can move with enough adrenaline and fear and desperation rushing through his veins.

He takes his pulse but feels the fake one, the one that he always feels with its same steady rhythm that means nothing. He can't take a temperature because Sherlock is always freezing, sucking away John's heat with just a touch, any touch.

"...John..."

With a relieved cry, John grabs Sherlock's hands, "Tell me what you need. I'll get it for you. Anything.”

“...Warm...th... Warmth...”

John’s eyes widen. He remembers the numbness, the way ice seems to linger in his bones whenever Sherlock touches him, how it does more than invade. It seems to take and take (and _want_ to take so much more...)

“Then it’s yours,” John offers his hands, open and wide. “Take it, all that you need.”

“...No...” Sherlock is shaking.

“Just take it—”

“...No...”

“ _I want you to do it_!” John tells him, “I don’t care!”

They breathe and Sherlock reaches over, his lips mouthing against John’s fingers before he turns away from them and bites down at John’s wrist.

-

All the warmth spills from his body.

-

Interlude: Mycroft

-

“What are you? _What have you become_?”

He remembers when he and Mummy stumbled on Sherlock with his new ‘friend’ (Mycroft has never approved of any of Sherlock’s associations with junkies and addicts) covered in scarlet and deep ugly streams of crimson. That day they saw both men with lips kissed in red.

Hearts half-eaten.

“We’re immortal now,” Mycroft doesn’t recall if it was Sherlock or that damned Moriarty who said it first. “We can gain all the knowledge that we want, play all the games we want... forever.”

Someone retched, fell to their knees.

“Don’t worry, Mycroft,” he’ll never forget how Sherlock regarded them with the closes thing to tenderness (or was it hunger?) that he’s ever given to family, “I can’t take your warmth...”

Their smiles glitter in the flickering light.

“...unless you give permission first.”

-

“You should have run, Doctor Watson,” he tells the fragile-looking soldier after he’s moved in with his little brother, “He’ll do all he can to get what he wants. My brother isn’t capable of sentiment.”

“I think,” Watson had said then, “that you don’t know everything about him.”

Mycroft thinks of his older brother’s never-changing face, of the way he’s ripped people apart when they begged him to (and then screamed ‘no’ and many regrets as Sherlock devoured them), of the eerily similar and horrifying way that Moriarty and Sherlock used to control the criminal world.

He thinks of Mummy, dead and hanging from the basement, of a silent Sherlock at the funeral and then Sherlock’s escapades as a consulting detective ( _just another trick, a plan to get more nourishment, he’s lying_ —) and now this, a flatmate. Another ordinary ploy, another victim.

His fault ( _Carl Powers wasn’t murdered, brother. Stop bothering Daddy about it,_ he’d snapped, not noticing how his older brother’s face shut, how he cut off ties when he went to University, how Mycroft snubbed him over and over to go further in his career—), his responsibility. No, Watson doesn’t understand, he never will—

“Run,” is all he says as the Doctor storms off to the car.

_It’s not too late for you._

-

After: Sherlock

-

He doesn’t bother cleaning up. No, he doesn’t want to let go of his John. Not yet.

He wraps his arms around the motionless form, presses John’s wrist against his lips and his nose. Breathes in. Kisses it. Listens for the faint flutter that he craves.

Such beautiful warmth.

 _Just a little bit longer,_ he waits. _Just a little bit longer._


End file.
